Easter Sunday is almost upon us, so it’s time for some of us to think about Jesus Christ rising from the dead and, coincidentally, about where to hide the eggs.

Personally, not being a particularly religious type, I spend most of my time thinking about the eggs. While rising from the dead deserves all the accolades it can get, I’ve got my own job to do. That means coming up with strategic hiding places for a bunch of plastic eggs.

This is not as easy as one might think, especially as your children get older. Now that my four kids are in their 20s and 30s, and their cousins are about the same age, Easter egg hunts are not the cute little extended family gatherings they once were. Not only are the kids slightly smarter, they’re also far more jaded. Consequently, I’ve got to find tougher hiding places.

Believe me, it’s not that easy to get a 26-year-old or a 33-year-old to join in an Easter egg hunt. Jellybeans don’t do it anymore. But load a golden egg with a $20 bill and watch them scrape and claw their way past siblings and cousins in an effort to find it. Now that’s fun.

More by Nick Hoppe

Add a whole bunch of $1 eggs, a few $5 eggs and a couple of $10 eggs and then stand back as chaos breaks out. Especially when the hiding places are where no 5-year-old would ever dream of looking.

I’ve always been in charge of hiding eggs. Over the years various brothers-in-law have attempted to assist me, but they were quickly dismissed. It’s an art, and I’ve got it down.

It’s difficult to explain. Maybe the best example was when I gently hid the golden egg in my 93-year-old grandmother’s perfectly coiffed hair. She was happily watching the hunt, not knowing she was packing the big prize. It was an ugly scene once I hinted to the kids that the egg was somewhere on her body. I’m surprised she lived another six years.

There have been other classics. Exhaust pipes, carburetor compartments, pool drains, grandfather’s pants (ankle area), middle of rose bushes, deep in a poison oak patch (that was a mistake), inside stuffed animals and hundreds of other non-obvious places.

But things are beginning to change. The cycle of life cannot be stopped. There is a rule that once you have children of your own, you are eliminated from the family Easter egg hunt. I know it sounds unfair, but those are the rules.

Two cousins have already been disqualified, and my 35-year-old daughter is pregnant with our first grandchild, so Sunday will be her last Easter egg hunt. She’s lobbying for a head start as part of her Farewell Tour, but it’s not going to happen.

Meanwhile, three little grandnieces are rising up the ladder. I can still dismiss two of them, since they’re clueless 2-year-olds, but the 4-year-old is now a player, and I’ve got to reluctantly deal with her.

This means hiding some eggs, much to my chagrin, in plain sight where only a complete knucklehead could miss them. Then I’ll watch as the 4-year-old, given a head start, will squeal with delight when she practically trips over an egg, and her parents will beam proudly as she puts it in her basket. The best news is that it will be filled with candy. No point wasting cash on her.

Once she’s filled her basket, I’ll unleash the big “kids” who have yet to procreate. Never mind that they’re all successful in their chosen careers and are financially secure. There’s something about a $20 egg that brings out the shark in everyone.

As of this writing, I’m not sure where the golden egg or some of the money eggs will be hidden. A professional egg hider like me never knows for sure until the last moment. I have to rely on instinct.

I am making a conscious effort to be less destructive, though. Many a car and piece of furniture have been practically destroyed (let alone stuffed animals and 93-year-old grandmothers) by frenzied older Easter egg hunters looking for cash to fund their Saturday nights.

But then again, with my daughter pregnant, it’s the end of an era. I’ll definitely have to come up with something spectacular. Not sure what it will be, but it won’t be pretty.